


An Officer and A Consulting Detective

by Sunnyrea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-13
Updated: 2011-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6375.html">Kink meme part XI</a> at LJ: <i>John has to attend some sort of event or ceremony wearing his formal dress uniform from the army. Sherlock gets a good look at him wearing it before he leaves and finds it EXTREMELY appealing. What does Sherlock think about while John's gone and what does he do when he gets back home?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	An Officer and A Consulting Detective

In retrospect Sherlock feels such things as dress uniforms should come with a warning label or perhaps a warning bell for when walking into rooms.

Sherlock has never been one to pay much attention to clothing unless in reference to a case. Clothing can be very useful for clues and identifying bodies, of course. Aesthetically, however, clothing has never been worth the contemplative time it takes to consider something appealing or not. Sherlock occupies his time far more constructively than deciding a suit or pair of shoes merits purchase or praise.

This was all true until thirty-five minutes ago.

 

“Sherlock!” John calls from upstairs. “Have you seen my black shoes?”

Sherlock does not look up from his book. “I do not keep tabs on your clothing, John.”

“Well, you were – oh wait, found them!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes for no one’s viewing pleasure but it needed to be done. He reads through the page in front of him again, two typing errors. Really, are there no editors any more? He hears John’s feet on the stairs at the edge of his senses, slower than normal, more military clip than usual.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

The grammar of the writer, however, is commendable considering the sorry state of the English language on many a speaker’s tongue.

“I have the memorial ceremony for my unit today, do you remember?”

“Of course.”

“Really? You remember?”

“I do.”

The writer used the non-word ‘coconspirator.’ Sherlock frowns and shakes his head.

“So, you’re not going to text me unnecessarily?”

“I never text unnecessarily.”

Sherlock hears John sigh and he doesn’t need to look up to know John is shaking his head and rubbing a hand over his eyes.

“Sherlock, would you look at me.”

This time Sherlock sighs and finally glances up from his book. Were it not for the fact that the book is resting on Sherlock’s knees bent up in the chair he may have dropped it.

John wears his dress uniform. The coat is black with red accents, cuffs and collar. The jacket closes with four gold buttons and underneath Sherlock sees what appears to be a red waistcoat of some sort with it’s own column of gold buttons. John’s shirt is white and the pants are black with a red stripe down each outward side. The entire ensemble tops off with a black bowtie around John’s neck. The uniform fits perfectly, tight to his sides and across his chest making John appear broader but not in an unflattering sense. He looks…

“Sherlock?”

John looks stunning, absolutely stunning.

John snaps his fingers. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinks once. “Yes?”

John gives Sherlock a confused look then shakes his head for the second time, clearly deciding to not bother to ask. For once Sherlock is pleased by John’s lack of curiosity.

“Well, I have to go and this is a formal affair.” He points to his uniform unnecessarily. “So, do not text me in the middle of it. In fact I may even leave my phone.”

Sherlock clears his throat carefully. “I would not suggest that as there could be a pressing reason I need –”

John makes a slicing motion with his arm. “Do not think for a minute I will leave the ceremony to bring you a pen.”

Sherlock purses his lips. When John raises his arm the coat shifts and Sherlock can see the waistcoat underneath better. He feels a tingling in his fingers, a desire to touch the buttons, to run his hands over the coat and underneath.

“I’m leaving now. I’ll be back later.”

Sherlock simply nods. John turns around and Sherlock sees how the pants hug John’s hips all the way around to perfectly show off his arse. Sherlock has the sudden, irrational desire to jump from the chair and tackle John to the floor.

 

Thirty-six minutes later Sherlock’s book is on the floor but he has not moved from his chair. He sits still as death with his fingers steepled at his lips. The same images keep flowing through his mind, cataloging and replaying and analyzing and tantalizing. Black coat, red cuffs, gold buttons, bowtie, tight pants…

“This is most intriguing,” Sherlock says to the air.

Sherlock rarely experiences sexual urges of any kind. In general most people do not interest him enough to draw any sort of attraction from him. He usually does not experience those types of feeling and he feels he is better for it. The whole affair of sex and relationships and everything that fits into that arena of life seems simply far too time consuming and complicated. Not worth the bother.

“This seems to be an exception,” Sherlock says aloud.

Sherlock is well aware how important John is to him. He is also well aware that were he ever to decide to take the time or make the effort of having any sort of physical relationship or sexual encounter, John would be the perfect candidate for said situation. John is the only person he truly cares about. (Caring for Mycroft is an obligation only existing because of blood).

“The uniform changes things.”

The uniform very much changes things. It changes things in a way Sherlock has never anticipated, never foreseen, never contemplated. The surprise is enough to keep Sherlock’s attention fully focused. However, beyond that startling new ideas keep pervading Sherlock’s conscious thoughts. His focus shifts wildly between analyzing his new fascination with John’s dress uniform, how it can be that he never had such an unquenchable interest in something so mundane before and images of things he would like to do to John in that uniform.

Sherlock suddenly gasps loudly. “Ah! I have a kink!”

He drops his hands and grins around in triumph. Unfortunately there is no one to tell. Sherlock frowns and stares at his mobile phone resting on the arm of the chair. He rather wants to text John and tell him his discovery. However, that could lead to awkward questioning about how Sherlock came by such a revelation and why.

Sherlock tilts his head and smirks. “It could also lead to pleasing results.”

Sherlock makes a ‘hmm’ noise but does not pick up his mobile phone. Perhaps surprises are better.

 

Three hours later the door downstairs opens then closes and John comes walking up the stairs.

“Sherlock, I’m ba – Oh, you haven’t moved.”

Sherlock smiles from his chair, only half listening to John’s words. Most of his brain is occupied with the uniform John still wears.

“Anyway,” John waves a hand at Sherlock, “I’m back.”

John’s hands move over his buttons, about to undo one.

“Wait!” Sherlock shouts. “Stop!”

John freezes. “What?” His eyes slide from side to side slowly. “Is there an assassin behind me?”

“Nothing of the kind.”

John’s tense posture eases and he cocks his head. “Uh… what then?”

Sherlock pauses and does not say anything for a moment, just staring at John, then he smiles. “I cannot decide if I want you to unbutton your coat or not.”

John stares at Sherlock for a long beat. “What?”

Sherlock pushes his feet off the chair and settles them on the floor. Then he slowly stands and walks over to John. John watches his approach then suddenly steps back so he hits the wall as Sherlock closes the distance.

“Sherlock…” John’s voice has quieted and he stares at Sherlock as though he can’t decide what to feel.

Sherlock reaches out and touches John’s coat. The fabric feels very fine, heavy and well made. Sherlock imagines the army spent a pretty penny on it. He slides his hand up the edge of the red collar, thumb brushing over the small gold insignia in the center. He presses the fabric of the collar between his two fingers, tugging slightly so it slips against John’s chest, more white shirt exposed. With his other hand, Sherlock touches the top gold button of John’s coat. The button is metal, heavier and fancier than most generic plastic buttons on every day clothing. Sherlock circles the edge of the button with the tip of his finger, slipping under to the flat back. He slowly dances his hand down each button, circling and twisting them as he goes. Sherlock’s other hand slides up John’s coat, palm flat with as much contact as possible, to the red accents across John’s shoulders, gold buttons at the inner points. He slips his fingers around the loose fabric, two under the red, two over, his thumb on the button.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s hands switch and move together to the white shirt over John’s chest. The cloth feels slightly stiff from disuse, the small creases from where it was previously folded not quite removed despite obvious ironing. He let’s his fingers stumble and stick over the small buttons as he coasts his hands up toward John’s neck. Sherlock can feel the rise and fall of John’s chest as he breathes, the pace increasing, becoming more erratic as Sherlock’s hands rise. Sherlock’s finger tips reach John’s bow tie, silk and sleek and slightly stiff. The bow tie is tied tight against John’s neck and Sherlock pulls it slightly so a small gap appears between John’s shirt and the skin of his neck.

Sherlock’s hands switch again and coast down the black fabric, not wool, something lighter but still sufficiently heavy for the formal attire. He slides his hands over the edges and curves of John’s chest under the tight fit. His fingers slip across and down John’s sides until his reaches the bottom edge where the coat meets John’s hip bones. His thumbs press against the jut of bone while his finger tips trace the thicker sown edge of the coat, perfect straight line.

Then Sherlock moves his right hand to John’s arm, his left staying fixed against John’s hip like an anchor. He starts at John’s inner elbow, finger tips dipping the fabric against the slight indentation. He wraps his hand wholly around John’s arm and slowly slides his fingers down and over the tall red cuffs. He touches the edge of the cuff, nails scraping John’s skin, when John’s hand grabs his.

Sherlock’s head snaps up to look at John’s face. John’s cheeks are flushed, pupils blown, breath harsh and stuttered.

“John?” Sherlock says quietly.

John’s other hand grasps the back of Sherlock’s neck quickly, pulling him forward, down, and crashes their lips together. John tastes like champagne and mint, smells like city air and cigar smoke, and feels like heat and wet and heavy fabric still under Sherlock’s one hand. John kisses him hard so his teeth hit Sherlock’s, bruises his lips, but Sherlock doesn’t stop him. Sherlock breathes sharply through his nose and presses John further against the wall with his lips. John’s hand spasms once over Sherlock’s then clasps tighter. John pushes back against Sherlock, hard against Sherlock’s hip, opens his mouth wider, slips his fingers up into Sherlock’s hair.

The heat fills Sherlock up and he lets his hand slide slowly up the dark, perfect fabric. He hits John’s buttons and slips each one open. He touches the small vest underneath, more buttons he knows are gold, twists them. Then John slides his tongue left and Sherlock finds himself distracted, humming back in his throat, a weakness in his knees. John’s hand whips away from Sherlock’s hair to grab his side as if he knows Sherlock might fall.

Abruptly the kiss stops. John’s lips rest on Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock stares at the wall over John’s head. He finds he cannot move, as if John’s hand on his locks him in place. John’s head shifts and Sherlock looks down as John looks up.

“Am I allowed to take off my uniform now?”

Sherlock knows it’s impossible but it’s as if he can feel his pupils dilate. He has never felt this before, not this. John smiles slowly as if the battle is won and Sherlock nods.

“Yes, John, I think so.”


End file.
